on time. He pushed his luggage cart through the NICHTS ZU DEKLARIEREN and looked for a public telephone.
There were times when having intuition and perception could be a disadvantage, even a curse.
They had not parted well. Etan lay next to him, their sweat mingled, yet there had been a distance between them. Different people, different ways, different goals, and, for the moment, no bridge. Love and desire, but no bridge. That bridge was commitment, not just talk about marriage but the serious practical business of changing their lives so they could be together. There would be small people to nurture and care for. That meant being around, not departing yet again on another quest. It meant choices and some hard decisions. He smiled to himself. He missed her already, but hell, growing up was harder when you were an adult.
In the end Guido was the obvious man from whom to obtain background information on the von Graffenlaubs. He and Fitzduane either had covered assignments together or had competed for them in half a dozen different countries. Since being wounded in Lebanon and subsequently contracting a severe liver infection, the Swiss journalist had been deskbound and was currently filling in the time with a research job in the records section of Ringier, the major Swiss publishing house.
And yet Fitzduane hesitated by the phone; Guido had been Etan's lover for several years. Lover – familiar with her body in the most intimate of ways. A kaleidoscope of explicit sexual images crowded his mind. Another man, his friend, in the body of the woman he loved – in the past perhaps, but in his mind now.
Life, he thought, is too short for this kind of mental shit. He began to dial.
Dr. Paul had pale, aristocratic features, and his blond hair was silky smooth. 'Are you comfortable?' he asked. He managed to sound genuinely concerned. The tone of his voice was reassuring, and its timbre projected professional confidence.
Kadar thought he'd got Dr. Paul about right. 'Why don't we start with your name?'
'Felix Kadar. But that's not my real name.'
'I see,' said Dr. Paul.
'I have many names,' said Kadar. 'They come and go.'
Dr. Paul smiled enigmatically. He had beautiful white teeth.
'My birth certificate,' said Kadar, 'states that I was born in 1944. My place of birth is given as Bern. Actually I was born in a small apartment in Brunnengasse, just a couple of minutes' walk from here. My mother's name was listed as Violeta Consuela Maria Balart. My father was Henry Bridgenorth Lodge. She was Cuban, a secretary with the diplomatic mission. He was a citizen of the United States of America. They were not married. It was wartime. Even in Switzerland, passions were running high.
'Father worked for the OSS. He never got around to mentioning to Mother that he had a wife and young son back in the States. When Mother explained that it wasn't the high standard of Swiss wartime cuisine that was thickening her waist, Dad had himself parachuted into Italy, and by all accounts he had a very good war.
'Mother and I were shipped back to Cuba and banished to a small town call Mayari in OrienteProvince. The area has one claim to fame: the biggest hacienda for miles around – it was over ten thousand acres – was owned by a man with a singularly inappropriate name, Angel Castro. He sired seven children, and one of them was Fidel.
'Many people say that they have no interest in politics because no matter who is in power, it seems to make no difference. Life just goes on grinding them down. Well, I can't agree with that view. The Batista government meant a great deal to me. All of a sudden – I was about eight at the time – I had new clothes to wear, shoes on my feet, and there was enough to eat. Mother had a new hairstyle and smelled of perfume. Major Altamir Ventura, the province head of Batista's secret police, had entered our lives. He wore a uniform and had shiny brown boots and smelled of sweat and whiskey and cigars and cologne. When he took off his jacket and draped his belt and holster over the chair, I could see that he had another, smaller pistol tucked into the small of his back.'
'How did you feel about your mother at that time?' asked Dr. Paul.
'I didn't hate her then,' said Kadar, 'and of course, it's pointless to hate her now. At that time I merely despised her. She was stupid and weak – a natural victim. Whatever she did, she seemed to come out second best. She was one of life's losers. She was abandoned by my father. She was treated abominably by her family. She had to scrimp and scrape to make a living, and then she became Ventura's plaything.'
'Did you love her?'
'Love, love, love,' said Kadar. 'What an odd word. It is almost the antithesis of being in control. I don't know whether I loved her or not. Perhaps I did when I was very small. She was all I had. But I grew up quickly.'
'Did she love you?'
'I suppose,' said Kadar without enthusiasm, 'in her own stupid way. She used to have me sleep in her bed.'
'Until Major Ventura came along?'
'Yes,' said Kadar.
'Was your mother attractive?'
'Attractive?' said Kadar. 'Oh, yes, she was attractive. More to the point, she was sensual. She liked to touch and be touched. She always slept naked.'
'Did you miss sleeping with your mother?'
'Yes,' said Kadar. 'I was lonely.'
'And you used to cry and cry,' said Dr. Paul.
'But nobody knew,' said Kadar.
'And you swore never to rely on anybody again.'
'Yes,' said Kadar.
'But you didn't keep your promise, did you?'
'No,' Kadar whispered. 'No.'
Fitzduane had several hours to kill before he met Guido at the close of the working day at Ringier. He took a train the short distance into the center of Zurich and left his luggage at the central station. He shrugged his camera bag over his shoulder and set off to explore. Wandering around a new city on foot was something he loved to do.
Zurich was as sleek and affluent as he had expected, but to his surprise there were no signs of discord among the banks, the expensive shops, and the high-rise office buildings. At first it looked like a few isolated cases of vandalism. Then he began to notice that the damage, albeit superficial, was widespread. There were clear signs of recent rioting on a substantial scale. Plate glass windows had been cracked and were neatly taped up pending repair. Other windows had been smashed and were boarded up, again in the same painstaking and professional manner. Shards of broken glass glittered from the gutters. Spray-painted graffiti festooned the walls. A church just off Bahnhofstrasse was smeared with red paint as if with gobbets of blood. Under the read streaks were the words EUTHANASIE = RELIGION. On another side street he found two empty tear gas canisters. He bought a map and walked to Dufourstrasse 23.
Ringier was one of the largest publishing houses in Switzerland, and its success showed in the sleek modernism of its headquarters building. The foyer was large and dominated by a bunkerlike reception module; desk hardly seemed the appropriate term. There was a magazine shop built into the ground floor. While Guido was being located, Fitzduane browsed idly through some of the Ringier output. A miniature television camera whirred quietly on its mobile mount, following his movements.
The last time he had seen Guido, the Swiss had been fit and noticeably handsome, with a deep, confident voice and a personality to match. The overall effect was to project credibility, and it was not a misleading impression. Over the years Guido had built up a considerable network of sources and contacts who confided in him with unusual frankness.
This time, as Guido stepped from the elevator, Fitzduane felt a sense of shock and then sadness. He knew that look all too well. Guido's face seemed to have shrunk. It was newly lined and an unhealthy yellow. His eyes were bloodshot and cloudy. He had lost weight. He walked slowly, without his normal vigor of stride. Even his voice
